


everyone will make mistakes (& I know I have)

by mazily



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-25
Updated: 2007-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five People Patrick Stump never fell in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everyone will make mistakes (& I know I have)

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory five things meme fill.

1.

Greta climbs behind the kit, picks up a pair of sticks and smiles at him. Asks, “right, so how about this?” and begins to play.

(Were he a different man, he might've said: "Hey, wanna get dinner later?" She might've said yes. Instead, though, he picks up his guitar and starts to play along. Says, "Yeah, no, no, that's great.")

 

2.

Bob's nursing a bottle of beer, sitting on the balcony in boxers and nothing else. Patrick doesn't ask; if anything, it's hotter inside than out, the air closing around him and squeezing tight around his lungs.

“Air conditioner's broken,” Bob says. “Take off your clothes and pull up some floor.” He takes a drink of his beer and pats the space next to him. “Uh, not in the creepy way, dude.”

Patrick laughs. “Hey, my best friend's Pete Wentz.” He takes off his t-shirt and jeans, wishing for a moment that he hadn't decided on the Simpsons boxers with the weird red Kool-Aid stain on them this morning, then pulls of his shoes and socks. He keeps the hat on, even though it's really too hot, and walks out onto the balcony. There's a cooler on a chair, and he opens it, chooses water over beer and presses the cool, cool plastic against the back of his neck.

Bob smiles at him when he sits down, legs hanging over the edge. It's hot, uncomfortably so, and Patrick feels like he's melting. Sweaty and gross and only seconds away from turning into a giant blob of liquefied bones and skin. And he's starting to gross himself out a little with that train of thought, so instead he just laughs and shrugs, says, “yeah, I don't know, man" at Bob's questioning look.

He hates LA. He leans back, hands behind him, and looks up. “No fucking stars,” he says. As if Chicago's really all that much better on that front, as if he's actually from one of the wide open places they've stopped, places where he could lie back on the grass along the side of the highway, stars too numerous to count.

“Right, because Chicago's so much better,” Bob says. Laughing.

“Shut up, Chicago's the best and you know it,” Patrick says.

Bob sighs. “Yeah, no, it is. I know.”

It's too hot to think, to talk, to do anything but sit there, on the balcony, legs swinging nervously over the edge. Only their fingers touching. Pinky to pinky on the concrete between them.

 

3.

Ryan Ross looks at Pete like Pete hung the stars and fucking moon, all big eyes and, “so, tell me what that was like, Pete," and, ugh, Patrick's going to be sick. Patrick doesn't want to think about his own brief period of Pete-worship, of his own moments of _omgPeteWentzofRacetraitoromg_ and youthful stupidity and, oh god, how embarrassing it all was. So when Pete gets distracted, starts typing into his Sidekick and ignoring Ryan (not malevolently or anything, just sort of obliviously), Patrick has to step in. Has to say, “hey, so, Pete played me some of your stuff. You guys are pretty good.” Has to ask if Ryan likes Bowie, if he wants to come listen to _Low_ (and he cringes, how “want to come look at my etchings?”, and the bitch of it is he doesn't even mean it like that, not really). But Ryan's a pretty sharp kid; he just smirks, the little shit, and touches Patrick's arm and says, “yes.”

 

4.

“We're having a meeting of the Sweet Little Dudes,” Pete yells, “no non-members allowed!” Patrick's not stupid, he's nowhere near as naive as Pete seems to think he is. But he doesn't say anything, just grabs a hoodie and an acoustic and walks off the bus. Tries to find somewhere to sit, wait, fuck around on his guitar a little. Only there are parties behind almost every bus, laughter and screaming and, well, _partying_ ; normally he'd just join in, have a few drinks and maybe more, lean up against one of the buses with his hands down someone's pants (with someone's callused hand down his, rough and steady and momentarily perfect) (just drunk enough that the guilt wouldn't hit until the hangover the next morning), but tonight he's just. Not in the mood.

He's tired. He really wants to crawl into his bunk for a few hours, close his eyes and sleep. But he can't, so now he just wants to punch someone. Or sit alone somewhere and play (not brood: that's Pete's thing, not Patrick's). He walks. There's noise coming from the My Chem bus--which is weird because there's noise coming from everywhere, so Patrick shouldn't be able to make out the sound of one Iron Maiden song coming from one bus, not to mention the fact that he's pretty sure he just passed Ray and Gerard a few buses back--and Patrick decides, fuck it, he might as well knock and see who's in there (if, in fact, anyone is, and they didn't just leave their stereo playing before they went out).

It's only when Gerard answers the door with a, “fuck, Mikey, the code's not that fucking hard to- oh, hey, Patrick,” that Patrick remembers that Gerard doesn't drink or anything anymore. Which, okay, he feels kind of stupid about. But Gerard answers the door in his skeleton pyjamas, and he invites Patrick inside for, “um, we've got Doritos? I think?”

“That's, that'd be great, actually,” Patrick says. “I'm sort of locked out of my own bus until Pete and Mikey-”

“Dude, seriously, that's my brother.”

“-finish playing Scrabble?” Patrick says. He leans his guitar case against a wall and pulls his hat down on his forehead. Hopes he doesn't look like too much of a tool. “So I think you promised me some Doritos. Are you or are you not a man of your word, Gerard Way?”

Gerard smiles, and it should look goofy, it's so big and honest, but it doesn't. It just looks, well, pretty. Happy. Patrick can't stop himself from grinning back, from reaching out and pressing his fingers to Gerard's wrist as Gerard passes over the bag of chips.

 

5.

Pete's making these noises, these choked, croaking, awful sounds, and he's pushing at Patrick's chest and pulling at Patrick's arms, kicking and stomping on Patrick's feet. Patrick's going to kill him, he's just going to press his arm against Pete's throat until Pete turns purple, and he's going to watch as Pete fucking dies right there in Patrick's arms.

He's going to laugh.

Pete kicks again, making contact with Patrick's shin hard enough that Patrick stumbles. Just a little, but it's enough for Pete to push him off. Turn them so Patrick's against the wall, now, so Patrick can't quite catch his breath.

“You fucker,” Pete says. “What the fuck was that?” He's pressing Patrick against the wall, just hard enough that he can't get away. Patrick turns his head away, and Pete whispers directly into his ear. “Answer me, Patrick. _What. The. Fuck. Was. That._ ”

Patrick hates him. Fucking hates him, and his stupid mouth, and his fucking smug fucking grin and his ugly hoodie and his big stupid teeth and his eyes and his fucking girlfriend he has to take on tour with them even though no one wants her around, and he spits at Pete's face-- _”that's my eye, you shit!”_ \--and kicks and twists himself under Pete's arm. His hat falling to the ground. He's two steps, three, away when Pete grabs his arm and pulls Patrick into his arms. Into a fucking full-body hug, saying, “shh, Patrick, c'mon,” which, no, Patrick isn't falling for that. Not again.

He stills, though. Heartbeat too fast and breath shallow. He lets Pete hold him. Lets Pete kiss between his eyes and whisper nonsense against his skin; lets him pet Patrick's bare head and hold on, hold on, hold on.


End file.
